Readings

I sit on the couch that the apartment complex provides each unit, several patterns superimposed on one-another. With my text in hand, I read beneath the halogen torchière. Sweat pools and runs from my creased elbows. The central cooling never has worked well. The words on the page don't make any sense. I read half the story. What the hell is going on.
"Hey listen to this," I say. I quikly read a few passages.
"I don't like it," my roomate said.
I reach the end of the story with some understanding of what has just transpired. I reread. Ah. he's a drunk and the house is empty. I still don't like it.

"The Swimmer" by John Cheever really soured my mood, and has made my momentum slump for the evening, or maybe it's just late. I like the premise, but the story has fallen flat on its face for me. I pushed through the nexts two stories, such a delight. Well, I'm going to finish my writing at 5 this morning. I hope I'm more coherent when I awake than I seem to be now.

--andersonwj